


The Mourners

by Saxifactumterritum



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Adventure, Alien Planet, Canon Compliant, Drama, M/M, Maybe a bit of fluff, kind gay but that's kinda background, ronon and teyla are also in it but it's mostly about john let's be honest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:15:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21906598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saxifactumterritum/pseuds/Saxifactumterritum
Summary: A boring mission to alien planet, and then things start getting weird.I hope you like this, escriveine, I tried to get in the things you like. It was fun to write it for you
Relationships: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Comments: 10
Kudos: 45
Collections: Stargate Atlantis Secret Santa 2019





	The Mourners

**Author's Note:**

  * For [escriveine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/escriveine/gifts).



> WARNINGS: I should probably warn for grief, but it's not specific. 
> 
> so very many thanks to Glim for beta reading this when it isn't even her fandom.

The planet has no lifesigns. The landscape is dismal, jagged. The rain is never-ending, what little flora they tangle with is stunted and scrubby, there are no signs of animal-life. They’re chasing some fluttering energy reading, a will-o-the-wisp leading them stumbling and sliding, miles and miles away from the ‘gate, across rough, wet terrain they can’t get good footing on. Every time John thinks they might’ve found a path, another hill or cliff-face or ridge will rear out of the rain and cut them off. It’s just endless, dead rock. John’s walking in the middle with Rodney, scrambling after Teyla. She’s sure-footed and doesn’t fall over as much as John seems to be doing but even she’s tired and fed up, judging by the Athosian slang coming back to them on the wind. 

John wipes rain out of his face and slides down the rock much less gracefully than Teyla just did, grabbing Rodney’s elbow as they both careen out of control and come to a sliding stop - John peers into the mist, over the rough tussocks of grass, and gulps. Just the other side of the path is a cliff. Probably what prompted Teyla's swearing. Rodney’s not paying the slightest bit of attention, more interested in his scanner and pad, muttering as he goes, barely raising his eyes to see. Ronon leaps down the rock, stopping at John’s shoulder and whistling at the sudden sharp decent they might’ve easily just tumbled down. 

“Rodney!” John yells, shouting to be heard over the storm. 

“Hm, yes, yes… this way!” Rodney shouts back, trying to head left. John grabs his elbow again and holds on. Rodney gives him a baffled look, takes in what John’s sure is an annoyed expression. Rodney’s mouth firms, eyes going stoney. John rolls his eyes and Rodey makes a slightly flustered ‘yes, well’ kind of face. “We’re nearly there!”

John gives his best go at ‘wholly unimpressed’ and Rodney shrugs, grinning all of a sudden and turning the tablet to show John some nonsense. Looks like energy spikes; it’s hard to see through the rain-spattered covering. 

“I don’t know what this is,” Rodney says, leaning close, his mouth right by John’s ear to be heard. John concentrates on the words and not Rodney’s warmth, not Rodney’s breath against his frozen, wet skin…. 

“What?!” John has to shout, having zoned out. 

“I said, you moron, this big … thing, it’s a thing!” Rodney says, louder, mouth all amused at John’s inattention. “What’s so distracting you’re not interested in what is probably a huge energy source? Maybe even a ZPM!” 

“We’re standing on the edge of a cliff in a storm and I’m cold, and I’m wet, and I’m tired!” John shouts, waving a hand to show the utter shit-ness of their surroundings. “Can’t we wait for the storm to go? Come back when it’s summer?”

“Summer is good!” Teyla agrees, pushing in close with them. She’s in a pissy mood. “Summer is warm and dry!” 

“Yes, but I think this rain is constant, i.e, no summer,” Rodney says, shrugging. “C’mon, guys! A ZPM!”

John sighs. Rodney’s like a little boy when he gets the scent of something, all excitement and enthusiasm. It’s quite rare to see, even in these days. Post-earth battle, Richard Woolsey has taken to calling it a ‘golden era of peace’, despite the Wraith still being here, despite the war that’s still raging away on the fringes of the galaxy, despite the replicators, despite berserk alien creatures still hanging around from Michael’s experiments. Rodney loves Atlantis and the job’s better now, with the unholy trinity of Woolsey, Teyla and Carter heading things up, but Keller went off to do the Pegasus version of Medecin Sans Frontiers with Carson, leaving Rodney behind. And there’s his beefed-up science department that requires lots of meetings and are all, according to Rodney, morons. So it’s good Rodney’s happy and not worried about some spreadsheet he made to prove the dire necessity of a coffee machine in science lab 3. John hasn’t seen him this happy in ages.

John throws his hands up; he’s a sucker. Rodney bounces on the balls of his feet, grin turning into an all-out smile. Teyla groans and Ronon is laughing somewhere in the mist over there. John takes point, heading left, listening as Rodney regales Teyla with all the things this energy reading might be. John can’t make out the words over the storm but he can hear that whatever it is, it’s got Rodney right happy. He trudges on, peering into the mist, trying to get his torch to pierce the gloom as the storm worsens. Gusts of wind batter at him and blow right through his clothes, into the cracks and gaps, into his boots, whisking away Rodney’s voice. When the wind lets up the rain is vertical, plastering his hair to his head. 

John can barely see where he’s leading them; he steps into a puddle before he even sees it, over his boot and soaking into his socks. What began as a gentle decent is growing slowly steeper, and then sharply rising. He slips and slides up the muddy slope and almost walks smack into a wall of rock. He turns to the right, then to the left, wondering which way, then looks back at Rodney. Rodney points upwards and looks expectantly at John. John looks up. He can hardly make out the rock, it looks like a cliff. He looks back at Rodney, incredulous, then looks at Teyla. She just shrugs, tired, mouth tight with annoyance. 

“I’m not a mountain goat!” John protests. 

“You can climb, you’ve told me about it,” Rodney says. “Go on up and tie a rope for the rest of us.”

John distinctly hears a quiet ‘goat-man’ from Ronon’s vicinity when he turns back to the rock and has a go, looking for hand-holds. He glares over his shoulder. He could probably climb this, though. He sighs and holds out a hand for rope. 

“John,” Teyla starts, hands on her hips. 

“We either find this now, or we have to do this whole thing all over again. You think when he gets onto Carter about it she’s not gonna be just as excited as him? And then, Carter can talk  _ General O’Neil  _ into doing what he doesn’t want to do, you think she can’t get Richard on-side?” John says. The lee of the rock is giving them some shelter from the wind so they don’t have to shout so loud. 

“I’m not coming back here,” Ronon rumbles, tossing a coil of rope at John, nearly braining him. “Go on, goat-man.”

John gathers the rope and his dignity, ignores Ronon’s soft laughter, and gets climbing. He’s climbed in the dark before; if Rodney asked, he’d act all mysterious like it was a life-or-death mission of great secrecy but really it was just sneaking into the climbing center after-hours, after working a shift there. He used to climb with his eyes closed, too, once he knew the walls too well for it to be a challenge. This isn’t the same. It’s not just that he can’t see, he can’t hear either, not over the wind and rain and thunder. The wind picks up the higher he gets and he has to hang on tight not to be blown off, sometimes, and sometimes the wind blows whole puddles of water down on him. And it is still raining, not letting up at all. He has no idea how high this rock-face is, and no idea if he’ll even find the top or if it might just turn into an overhang he can’t climb. Or if he’ll just… fall. Like those sycamore-seed helicopters he and Dave dropped as kids, watching them whirr round and round to settle. 

His radio crackles. They don’t really work here, there’s too much interference from the storm, but he makes the assumption that it’s Rodney bugging him about how long he’s being and shouts something rude. His foot slips and his hands ache from the cold as he tightens his grip, his arms stretched between holds. He gasps for breath, resting a minute, scrabbling for a better footing as some of the cliff comes away. His radio crackles again and he can make out Teyla’s voice and something high and worried from Rodney. No words, just their worry. 

“I’m fine!” he shouts, and keeps climbing. 

It’s a good ten minutes before he finds things flattening out. It starts to get harder to find holds but the gradient is less sheer. Slowly it levels out to a gentle slope and he can straighten up, stretch out his back and shoulders. He looks around at the mist and rain, seeing if maybe there’s a tree. 

“Chance’d be a fine thing,” he says. “Oh good, talking to yourself, John. Good one. Come on.”

He stumbles as soon as he takes three steps away, visibility shit, clouds closing in. He goes tripping over one rock and into another; the second one is a boulder, huge and imposing. He loops the rope around it and ties off, checking the strength. He checks his knots and then looks around. He has no way to tell the others that he’s done and they’re good to come up. He looks back the way he came, rope trailing back over the cliff, and sighs. He tries the radio, but no luck. He gives the rope a few tugs. Then starts back down. He gets halfway before he meets Teyla coming up, pausing every few feet to reach back to help Rodney, who’s trying to check his tablet and scanner as he comes up. John yells at him for being an idiot and then climbs back up to the top and sits on the boulder to wait. 

“Good climbing,” Ronon says, clapping John on the shoulder, the rope re-coiled. 

They set off again, wading through puddles, following the ebb and flow of the landscape. The mist thickens as they go until John can no longer justify calling it ‘mist’; it’s fog. They’re walking blind through a storm on a planet riddled with fissures and cliffs. And Rodney is turning in circles, heading first one way then another, one way then another. Teyla comes to an abrupt halt. 

“It is getting dark!” She yells, over a crash of thunder. “We head back or we camp here!”

Rodney opens his mouth but John gives him a light shove to shut him up. Ronon shrugs; he’s probably up for camping, he’s probably been in worse conditions. 

“Never seen a storm like this,” Ronon shouts, refuting that, squinting at the sky as an earth shuddering roll of thunder crashes over them. 

“It’s not so bad,” Rodney shouts

“It’s been like this all day,” Ronon says. “Many days. It’s not ending, the clouds are getting darker, I think this has been a respite from the worst of it!”

“Fuck. OK, we’re heading back,” John says. “Rodney, you’re taking us in circles. Your readings aren’t precise enough in the storm. You’ll need to work something out and come back.”

Teyla narrows her eyes and John’s pretty sure that she, at least, is not planning on returning to planet rain-storm. They’re all soaked to the skin, it’s getting colder. Rodney looks like he’s going to argue so John gives Ronon the nod to confiscate Rodney’s gadgets. He hears Rodney’s squawks of protest but ignores it, turning and walking away, further up the hill. It’s no good to use a compass to find their way back, but he’s not sure he wants to head back the way they came, there were too many loops. He takes them to the edge and looks down, wondering if he should risk it. Down is easier than up, but only if their rope is long enough. He asks Ronon, who does calculations in his head and maps territory as they walk wherever they go. 

“Gate’s the other way anyway,” Ronon says. 

“It is? Damn,” John says, turning in a tight circle. “Lost my bearings.”

“Gate’s that way,” Ronon says, pointing, when John ends still facing the wrong way. He’s close enough not to have to shout, hand on John’s shoulder to show him. “We came that way. From what I could see before this fog came up, we go this way and down and we should be able to get back to that wide path we left hours ago.”

“I know, I know, you think we should’ve stayed on the path - no hostiles here, blah blah,” John says, heading off. 

Ronon calls him something about goats and takes their six again, leaving Teyla with a sulking Rodney. There is no path here. John heads the direction Ronon pointed him in as best he can, peering into the fog, trying not to walk them off a cliff-edge. He wishes for trees, for a long branch to poke at the ground ahead of him, but there’s nothing in this wasteland. The occasional sheet of lightning doesn’t pierce the fog but he can tell there’s nothing but rubble and scrub and roots. He can’t hear anyone now over the wind and thunder, he has to keep on checking back for them. Teyla grows tired of it and links herself to him by rope, turning his head so he faces forwards. 

“Stop falling over!” she shouts. 

The ground is boggy. There’s grass here, coarse and springy, and he can’t see what’s puddle and what’s firm land. He gives up and just splashes in a straight line, leaning into the wind. A crash of lightning turns everything opaque, fog and rain suspended around him, granite on his left going up and up. He stumbles, reaching out, a frisson of something runs up his arm from where his palm’s pressed against rock that’s, somehow,  _ warm.  _ He puts it down to his skin being ice-cold, but he has a sense impression of his hand warming, up his wrist and into his arm, and he feels like there’s someone here. His hand stings in the cold; his fingers tingle like he’s been stung by something. There’s something  _ here _ , something looming or something small. Something biting. 

“Rodney!” he yells. He hears something indistinct. “Check the LSD!”

There’s grumbling and Teyla swears but he stays where he is, waiting. Rodney calls an irritable all clear. Still, John can’t throw the sense that they’re surrounded, as he sets off he feels like he’s being flanked, hulking figures striding with him long steps achingly slow. He’s being watched. Teyla cries out in sharp surprise a moment before his footing slips, distracted. He yells as he crashes downward, the rope cutting into his stomach and chest. He hangs on, hands against scree, and skids to a halt, lying on his back.

“Don’t move!” Teyla shouts. 

He can hear Rodney, fast and loud with fear, a-mile-a-minute about the edge of a cliff and falling and John holds still, breathing, waiting for the fear to leave him enough to assess. Before he can get his wits, Ronon’s there on a proper line, reaching over to secure John, hands sure. 

“Thanks,” John gasps, breath still rushed. 

“Thought you were a goner,” Ronon says, hand against John’s back, guiding him to the main line and clipping him on. John lets Ronon steady him, getting his breath. “Not so much like a goat.”

“Give it up about the goats,” John grumbles, sliding out of Ronon’s hold and down, lowering himself over the lip of the cliff that’s  _ really, really _ close. “Jesus.”

He goes slow, testing to make sure the cliff-face isn’t skree to come down, rappelling, testing the way. Ronon shouts something about him being stubborn but no way is he sending one of his people ahead when there’s no way to see where they’re going, no way to know a safe landing. 

Getting back to the gate, they use the ropes more. The rain is coming down harder and the thunder more frequent and John puts aside convenience for speed, puts aside caution as well and risks a few climbs he might’ve tried to avoid. There’s an urgency, he pushes them to a faster pace, forgets trying to keep his boots clean. He keeps them tied by rope, when one of them trips it’s easy to get them up and there’s less chance they’ll fall into a fissure or over a cliff. Speed mightn’t be the sensible choice but he can’t shake the sense of someone here, feels as if he’s being chased. Something catching up to him. It feels like he’s been walking for hours, dark and rain and fog swirling around him, isolating him. 

“Sheppard, let me take point,” Ronon says, startling John into a puddle. 

“Nah, I’m good,” John says, shaking his head. 

“You’re tired. I’m taking point,” Ronon says, giving him a push toward Rodney. 

John gives in. The last two hours he walks with Rodney, both of them lagging, Rodney setting up a steady stream of complaints. It’s not heartfelt, just a steady grumbling. Kind of comforting, really. John shivers, pausing, feeling eyes on him. 

“What is it?” Teyla says, noticing. She’s scanning around as best she can, stopping close to be heard. He can feel her breathing. She’s so wet. They sink into the boggy ground as they stand, alone, insulated by the storm picking up around them. 

“Nothing,” John says. “Let’s just go home, no point begging trouble for my paranoia.”

Teyla has another look around and sticks closer for the last leg, eyes on him as much as their surroundings, clocking each time he glances over his shoulder. The rain’s too thick by now, the ground is liquid mud, he can barely see an inch in front. His ears are ringing with the endless noise, everything cold and tingling. 

“I  _ am  _ dialing, Rodney!” Ronon’s voice comes through the fog and rain, the thunder abating a moment. 

“Well do it faster. I’m cold,” Rodney grouches, right in front of John. 

John stops just short of walking into him, touching Rodney’s shoulder to steady himself. Rodney turns and his eyes bore into John. John takes his hand away and squints at the gate that he can’t see. 

“Good to go,” Ronon says, appearing out of the fog and vanishing again. 

John shivers and follows, stumbling when the event-horizon is just suddenly there. He trips as he comes out the other side, Teyla there to steady him. It’s night but it’s warm and they all stand a moment in the dry, and his team is all watching him. 

  
  


* * *

John is still damp for the debriefing. Woolsey stepped down as leader after Atlantis was released for return to Pegasus, taking on what he calls a diplomatic role instead. As far as John can tell that just means reveling in bureaucracy. He’s a good go between for the IOA and the more chaotic Pegasus leadership, it’s working out okay. He gets to live between Pegasus and Earth, where he has a ‘partner’, he told John about it at a very awkward drinks things, explaining that ‘James’ plays the piano and is 'quite wonderful.’ It left the IOA floundering for an expedition leader until Colonel Carter, bored of peace-keeping a mostly-peaceful Milky Way, volunteered. 

The IOA and the US Airforce are still having an argument over Carter, but until it’s resolved she’s in charge again. She has to be in the Milky Way more than previous leaders so Teyla’s taken over some of the Pegasus side of things. Whichever of the three is in charge at any given moment, debriefings are now prompt. Even if you are damp and grouchy. John lets the rest of his team go and gives Carter a quick run-down of the expanses of nothing that they discovered. 

“I’m sure Rodney will be filling your inbox with proposals for going back, but the readings he got were either too distorted by the storm or they  _ were  _ the storm, we have no idea what, if anything, is there,” John says, still frustrated by Rodney’s insistence that there is something there, when it’s just a big nothing. It wasn’t even a bet this time, just a certainty that he had to be right. 

When Cater dismisses him he recognises the spark in her eye from Rodney; he has no doubt that he  _ will  _ be returning to MK7-48N. He’s uneasy for some reason, off-kilter. He wants to know more. For now, he goes to shower and change into properly dry things, and then searches out Ronon. He’s in his rooms flicking restlessly through a pile of comics. John takes a seat on the armchair in there and waits for Ronon to do more than grunt at him. 

“Heard some stories, about a planet that sounds like that one,” Ronon says. 

“Any particular story stand out?”

“Not really. I always liked the one about the moons being lovers, two women who could only meet once a year, who walked miles and miles to see each other each mid-summer and danced and danced until their feet left the earth one day.”

“Specifically the moons on MK7-48N?” John asks. 

Ronon shrugs, rolling up onto his feet and giving John’s shoulder a slap. John sighs but ties his trainers properly and accompanies Ronon on a run, chasing him across the city. 

“Some stories they’re refugees,” Ronon says, as John catches up on one of the high cat-walks, leaning and looking annoyingly relaxed and not at all out of breath. John leans on his knees a moment, panting. “Some they’re just farmers or something.”

“What’re their names?” John says. 

Ronon grins at him and John straightens, Ronon already taking off, laughing as John tries to keep up. It’s another ten minutes before Ronon slows again, far ahead, waiting on the East-West pier for John. 

“Griyet and Grav,” Ronon says. 

“Who tells the stories? Is it specifically MK7-48N?” John asks again, getting ready to chase again. 

“It’s just a Pegasus thing, gets told at trade fairs and to kids and things,” Ronon says. “Just a fairy-tale. Story goes, the stones move when the sky clears and the moons are full. Rock calls to rock. The moons call, and the Mourners answer. That’s the way it’s told.”

John shivers, damp again from running hard and from the ocean spray down here. It feels like water creeping under his collar and down his back. He sets off, leaving Ronon behind for all of three seconds before he roars past. They don’t talk on the rest of the run. 

“You said it sounded like this planet. Why?” John asks, in the mess later, picking at his food. 

“Rodney’s storms. He says they don’t end. And the energy readings,” Ronon says. “There was something in the storm.”

“According,” John says, pointing at Ronon with his spoon, “to the stories.”

“Something was there in the storm,” Ronon says.

So, he wasn’t the only one who thought they were being watched. Another twinge of disquiet sets John’s teeth on edge. Soon though, Rodney joins them, a sturdy warmth dispelling some of John’s unease. 

* * *

The ocean that takes up the majority of the planet Atlantis has settled on, christened Atlania III, is usually calm. Tonight there is a storm. It hasn’t stopped raining all day and the wind’s picked up, the waves have grown higher and higher, and the clouds have come down low and obscured all the light. The storm grows as night comes on and there is some uncertainty. After that first, desperate storm so long ago, there is always uncertainty. The weather unsettles the city. John goes to his quarters, lies down and listens to the water pelting against his windows, watches the dim light fade away to complete darkness. No lightening, even. He’s caught everyone’s agitation and can’t relax. The door beeps and Rodney slips in, kicking off his shoes and dumping armfuls of crap on John’s desk. John watches him in the dim light of one of his pads, a laptop he’s brought. John’s breathing evens out and deepens.

“I put a couple of guys to monitor things so I don’t have to, not that I trust them but we’ll see,” Rodney says, looking around. “Your lights are off.”

“I’m watching the storm,” John says, eyes still on Rodney. 

“I thought we were watching Batman,” Rodney protests, making faces at the darkness out the windows. 

John shrugs, sits up and puts the lights on. Falls asleep during the movie. Half-hears Rodney padding about, muttering, working some before leaving. The water’s still coming down, John can hear waves breaking over more distant parts of the city, the splash of something moving out there. The steady rush of Rodney’s breathing, somewhere. John wakes sharply, aware of the cold, his skin wet. He looks out from the cat-walk and reaches for his radio, taking off at a run, making for a higher position, bursting out into the rain and wind. 

He squints into the darkness, eyes straining to see. As he watches something crests the waves, breaking open the ocean and piercing the storm. Another breach, and another. He can’t make it out… something massive, things that send little tsunamis of water towards the city, pitching her, throwing John across to the other rail. There’s another one, off that side too; something breathing water, great stone hands reaching... thunder skittering across the rough, choppy water. They’re dark like the sky and they come on and come on, labouring through the water, cloud and rain and fog, bringing thunder that grinds down in rumbling surges. 

“They’re coming!” John shouts, taking off again at a sprint. Everything is soaked, the floors are inches deep in water. He splashes his way to the next position, the men on look-out. “They’re coming, can’t you see? Raise the alarm! Where’s your radio?”

They’re too stunned, looking out there. Somewhere there are eyes _ ,  _ drowning eyes searching until they find John and he, too, is arrested, stared into. He stands, the city beneath him rocking. He can’t breathe, is falling, falling. 

_ They walk the moons’ path, and in high summer they dance until their feet leave the earth.  _

John wakes before he hits the water, wakes damp with sweat. He’s panting, gasping for breath. The cold under his hand is glass, he’s standing by his window, looking out at the rain. It’s gentler, now. Just a soft tapping, like fingers drumming on a desk. The lights are low, he can see his reflection. He’s looking at his own eyes, brown in this light, a little wild. He’s breathing hard. The reflection of himself feels more real than the self he inhabits. His wider surrounding come into focus and he’s not home, his heart thunders for a moment with the storm. 

“John?”

It’s Teyla, she’s reflected beside him, her eyes warm with concern, Torren in her arms and wrapped in a blanket. John sinks into his body, his shoulder aching like it does in the damp weather, like he’s living long enough for age to settle into his bones. He shudders and meets Teyla’s reflected gaze.

“Bad dream I think,” he mutters. It’s just the odd light and the lateness that make him feel off-balance, like he’s out there with his reflection somehow, dizzy. “Weird dream, anyway. Came for a wander, got distracted.”

He turns and sees the real her, much more solid than the reflection in the glass. More solid than him. Rain pounds the windows as she scrutinises him. 

“In your shorts,” Teyla says, almost like she just has an obligation to point it out. 

It startles him till he realises she means summer shorts, not underwear. He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish, looking down at what he wore as pyjamas tonight. His feet are bare. 

“Yeah?” he says, managing to meet her eyes a moment. Everyone’s gaze is intense these days, too real; he looks away quick. 

“Torren was restless with the storm,” Teyla says, letting it drop. “Now he is sleeping well, I will return to my rooms where Kanaan is making us some tea before we, too, sleep again. If you would like the company.”

John trails after her, giving Kanaan an apologetic smile when he’s welcomed in. Kanaan is happy to welcome any strays Teyla collects, John’s seen it before; it’s all very genuine. He gets John a jumper, handwoven and Athosian, gentle earthy colours. It’s warm and soft and John falls asleep on the sofa before getting any tea.

* * *

Rodney works late. The storm ran for two days before passing and did little damage, he wants to get on top of it before Sheppard pulls him away from the city for a mission. The meteorologists are working on where the storm came from and how often that’s going to happen and all those important things, Rodney’s just fixing up what’s broken and going over data. There are some interesting energy readings that he’s running through a couple of simulations and comparing with other storm data they have stored, see if he can find a match. It’s all turning out very prosaic, but he’s pulled up recent storm data that includes MK7-48N and he’s lost himself in hundreds of records of storms and energy, lost track of time, the quietness telling him it’s late. He doesn’t realise how late until he’s pulled out of his work by a soft clanking sound down the corridor. 

He glances at the time, the ‘0200’ blinking accusingly up at him from his watch. Not a problem, he’s worked through the night before, but the sound of footsteps out in the corridor in conjunction with the lateness and quiet make his heart beat a little faster. The city at night is unsettling, all cold metal and glass, shadowy corners, everything echoing. He pulls up the internal scanners on one of the monitors, checking for patrols. They’re usually two-men teams, even this late, and they chat; they’re rarely this silent. Their patterns change a lot to make it hard to predict in case of invasion, but Rodney usually has a rough idea of where they are and he’s certain they’re not here. Not this quiet. Sure enough, the patrols are nowhere nearby, just a single life-sign, a slow steady dot. 

Rodney frowns, watching the life-sign comes closer, listening intently. The steps are soft; he can only make them out because he’s listening. He looks up at the door, left open by whomever left last, and sees Sheppard. Relief floods him but is at once dizzyingly snatched away; Sheppard walks the city, he’s often up late, he comes by the lab. But tonight he’s walking at an odd, halting pace, head tilted at a strange angle, and his gaze passes right over Rodney and the lab without pause. He’s also soaking wet.

“Sheppard? Where are you going?” Rodney asks, hurrying out of the lab into the corridor after Sheppard’s retreating back. 

He doesn’t answer, just keeps waking, bare feet quiet on the floors. Rodney tries to wake him, tries giving him a shake; John’s head turns and he stares at Rodney unseeing, eyes glazed, browner than usual in the strange half-light of Atlantis at night. Then he turns and goes on walking, head tipped to the side as if listening. Rodney follows, keying his radio. He gets an answer from the control room, first, from Harry Lu, the technician on duty. Pretty quick Sargeant Penotti takes over, asking about security risks, deciding it’s over his head and calling Lorne. Radek comes jogging up the stairs and into the corridor up ahead. 

“I was in the lab one level down,” he says, softly, falling into step with Rodney and John. “Whoa, where is the water coming from?”

“No idea,” Rodney says. 

Radek tries waking John while Rodney snaps at Lorne over the radio that, no, he doesn’t have any idea what’s going on and that, no, he never even thought to try waking Sheppard up what a clever idea. Lorne asks inane questions about sleep-walking, suggests Sheppard’s just tired, turns off the radio for Rodney’s short acerbic rant about  _ that  _ particular idiocy. 

“... and Radek, stop it, he’s not going to wake up,” Rodney snaps. 

Doctor Marie Kim hurries up and starts taking vitals. They’re quite a crowd when they reach the gate room, walking into a whole host of marines who are stood at uncertain attention, guns ready to raise, wondering if they’re going to be shooting their CO tonight. John walks up to the gate, stands in front of the ring dripping quietly. Lorne comes and joins Rodney. 

“Weird,” Lorne says. 

“He seems physically alright,” Marie says, looking at a pad. “His heart-rate’s a little elevated for him. From these readings, if I wasn’t observing him sleep-walking like this I’d have said he’s awake.”

“He is awake,” Radek says. 

“I know it looks-” Marie begins, but then stops because John’s shaking his head, looking around at them all in bewilderment. 

Lorne holds out a hand, gesturing to the marines to keep them from raising their weapons. There’s a long silence. 

“...what the fuck,” John says, looking directly at Rodney like he’s going to be the one with answers. 

Rodney opens his mouth to explain, realises that, in fact, he has no clue, and shrugs instead. John narrows his eyes. 

“I didn’t do anything!” Rodney says. If it wasn’t  _ him _ messing around with something… he narrows his eyes in turn. 

“I didn’t touch anything,” John grumbles, crossing his arms. He frowns. “Why am I wet?”

“No idea, I wasn’t there for that bit,” Rodney says, going closer. “Scanner?”

Radek hands him one and he runs it over John. Marie’s doing the same thing, trying to take John’s blood-pressure and pulse again which John is resisting. Rodney gives him a sharp poke and John subsides, holding out an arm for Marie and rolling his eyes. 

“Sir,” Lorne says, getting John’s attention. 

“I’m fine, major,” John says, glancing around at the marines. “Uh. I’ll be under observation until we know what happened,” he looks at Rodney and Rodney inclines his head, accepting. “Stand your men down, no need to shoot me just yet.”

“I’ll shoot him if we need,” Ronon says, coming through the crowd and settling just between John and the marines, gun held in a loose grip, stance just this side of threatening. 

The ‘ _ and no one else better had’ _ remains unspoken but clear. Rodney’s lips twitch and John meets his gaze for a moment, eyes greener, warmer, the worry lines easing. Rodney looks at the readings on the scanner. 

“Nothing,” he mutters, giving it a shake, frowning. “I’ll upload the readings and run them, see if there’s anything I’m missing, but you seem all normal. Other than zombie-ing around the city, that is.”

“Maybe I was just sleepwalking?” John suggests. 

“Come on back to the infirmary, we can get some scans,” Marie says. 

“Lieutenant Gush is on duty, isn’t he?” John asks, trailing obediently in Marie’s wake as she bustles away. “He’ll take blood.”

“You know, I have a theory about him,” Rodney says, falling into step with John. “I think he might be a vampire.”

“Vampires aren’t real,” John says, as they make it to the corridor and away from the crowds, Ronon walking silently at their backs. 

“Says the man who lives on a floating city in an alien galaxy,” Rodney says. 

John sighs, sighs again, grumbles about probably getting stuck in the infirmary, trips over his own feet and remembers again that he’s wet, complains about that for a while, then subsides. Rodney walks close enough that their shoulders brush, trying to work out how to be reassuring. He lays out the evidence for Doctor Gush being a vampire. That might be reassuring. 

  
  


* * *

Sheppard has to spend a night in the infirmary, but tests don’t reveal anything and the general consensus is ‘just a strange sleep-walking incident’. Sheppard doesn’t remember how he got wet and he’s in a foul mood after being stuck in the infirmary, he hangs around the lab getting on Rodney’s nerves until Rodney gives in to the fact that he’s not leaving and takes advantage of John’s ease with Ancient tech. 

“What is it?” John ask

“Radek thinks he’s worked it out, I’m not yet convinced,” Rodney says. John opens his mouth. “I’m not telling you what Radek thinks it is. I want to see if you can work it out.”

“I feel like a lab rat,” John grumbles, turning the disc over and over in his hands, running his fingers over it. 

Rodney nods. He did that, too; looking for buttons, controls, any panels that might slide open. John finds the crack along the bottom just as Rodney did but he doesn’t try and pry it open, he just notes it and keeps going, which means he works out much faster than Rodney did that it’s not going to open. Which is annoying. Rodney still knows he’s smarter, John just thinks in patterns so he sees that there are dips and raised lines and that they shift ever so slightly as he runs his fingers over them. 

“A toy? Like a maze? Why is it so faint? It only comes up when… what’s setting it off?” John says.

Rodney hands him the soft stylus they’ve been using. Radek thinks there’s a special-built thing that’s lost, but this works. John finds a pattern of dips he can press, lines he can fit the stylus between, grooves he can slide into. Rodney directs him and runs through the pattern they identified through trial and error. The whole thing glows faintly, the gentle light following the path of the stylus until the whole pattern is lit up. Then it hums. 

“You have to get the pattern right or it bites,” Rodney says. “Retrace it backwards, and then start in the middle and go clockwise.”

John does, nodding, bent over the thing. The humming changes in pitch with each go-over, when John’s finished the humming fades again and… Yep. The whispering. Same as last time. John sits back. 

“It’s a record,” he says. Rodney scowls and John’s lips do the twitchy thing that means he’s amused by Rodney and also fond of him. “That’s what Radek thinks, right?”

“Shut up,” Rodney says. “The Ancients had a million ways to record things. Whispering is hardly a ‘record’. It’s not-”

“It’s a record,” John says. “There’s a piece missing, I bet. This stylus is the wrong shape, it’s probably not meant to whisper.”

He looks disconcerted, though, turning the disc. Rodney frowns at John’s unease, skin itching. John runs a finger around the edge of the disc, lips moving, eyes unfocused. Rodney twitches and John shakes whatever it off. He runs the stylus over again, getting the pattern purposefully wrong, hissing and sucking his fingers when the little needles shoot out. 

“I told you it bites, why did you do that?” Rodney snaps, trying to take it back. 

“I’d call that a sting,” John says, just to be perverse. 

He sets the disc on the counter and does it again, gets the pattern wrong, watches the tiny needles come out. Rodney rolls his eyes and goes back to work, spins his chair to focus on his screen, checking a few fixes that his team’s made that he doesn’t trust. He has data from AR-4 to review, too, from a recent visit to an Ancient installation on PX-806. He’s squinting at Doctor Caan’s math when the whispering starts up again, more distinct, filling the lab and echoing. He’s not the only one who looks up, heads turn from all the workstations to stare at John and the disc. John’s staring, too. The whispering gets louder and louder, turning into a chant, making the hairs on Rodney’s arms stand on end. 

“That’s Satedan,” John says, already hailing Ronon.

Ronon’s there within five minutes; he could hear the soft chant through the radio.

“We had these at home,” Ronon says, turning the disc over. “The defence thing came later, used them to pass intelligence in the war sometimes and needed... This is just a fairy story. Someone must have thought it was important and adapted the casing to keep it safe.”

“How is it here?” Rodney asks. 

Ronon shrugs, fingers running over the pattern. As soon as he arrived he turned it off, finding the pattern easily; it sunk into the uncanny whispers again, then faded. Now it’s silent. 

“It’s not Ancestors’ technology,” Ronon says. “But they took whatever they wanted from the planets here, lots of stuff on the city isn’t theirs originally.”

“It’s not?” Rodney asks. Ronon shrugs again. 

“Seen stuff in the labs that I recognise from trade fairs, or, in the Satedan military we welcomed refugees, some stuff I recognise from there,” Ronon says. 

“Never would’ve put the Ancients down as scavengers,” John says. 

“They were colonisers,” Marie says, bustling in. “You missed your check up, colonel.”

She fights him into a blood pressure cuff, scowling around at them all.

“Can you colonise people who you put here?” John asks. “Thought Pegasus people are like us because of the Ancients. They’re not indigenous populations that the Ancients conquered.”

“Some of the planets have indigenous life, some maybe not but the Ancients saw themselves as more advanced, they ‘helped’ the populations of planets become ‘civilised’, they encouraged them to develop along the same lines as the Ancients themselves. They influenced the governments and took over, sometimes. Took whatever they wanted from the planets. Sounds like colonisation to me,” Marie says. 

“It’s more likely that someone picked this up at a trade fair,” John says, escaping the cuff and wriggling out of Marie’s reach. “This is newer than the Ancients.”

“It’s not new tech, we’ve had these on Sateda for generations. This one, though, is newer; Sheppard’s probably right,” Ronon says. John looks smug. “I’m keeping it.”

Rodney starts to protest but John’s already agreeing. 

  
  
  


* * *

Ronon runs when he gets restless, like an itch under his skin. He runs hard, after they find the recorder. It’s been a long, long time since he heard anyone speaking Satedan. It was mostly used for storytelling or around children who were learning by the time the war came along. Ronon was born into the war, he never knew the Sateda the language belonged to. The army was rag-tag, there were too many refugees everywhere, trade-language was necessary. You didn’t want to be shouting orders under duress and accidentally speak a language your soldiers didn’t understand. Story telling, though. That was for recreating glory; for recreating a world at peace where people had the luxury of using their own tongue. For hope and endurance and learning history.

The Wraith tried to take it all away. They were harder on anyone speaking an indigenous language, Ronon’s seen it countless times by now. One of the linguists on Atlantis spoke to Ronon about it, once. She got excited; maybe, she said, it was easier to use the mind-manipulating powers of the Wraith if everyone spoke a single language. Maybe it was easier to keep a civilisation small and quiet and subdued if you destroyed their links to their histories, if you destroyed intergenerational communication. If children speak a different language to their grandparents, they can’t learn from the past. Ronon is proud that the Wraith only managed half the job on Sateda. 

One evening he’s sat in a common area with Sheppard, after the mission that turned out to be nothing. Sheppard’s turning the recorder over and over in his hands. Ronon watches him carefully, watches for any carelessness, but Sheppard treats it with a modicum of reverence. A lot of curiosity, he’s curious about  _ everything _ , he reminds Ronon of the young bo-bo finks from Sateda, all big feet and floppy ears and tumbling about, getting into everything and making trouble. Ronon takes the recorder and gets more of John’s attention. 

“I might be the only person in the world who speaks it anymore,” Ronon says, forcing himself to voice the fear. 

“Sateda was at war, but you did a lot of trading,” John says. “Right? Trading parties, and you fight offensively, small units, intel. Maybe someone was off-world when the cull came.”

“Most of the army was recalled,” Ronon says. 

“It’s a big galaxy. Rodney did the math for you, if you want to know the odds,” John says, eyes flicking to the recorder and away, rubbing his pants leg.

“He did?”

“Yeah,” John says, scratching the back of his neck. Ronon grins at Sheppard’s twitchy fingers; he wants to get hold of the recorder again. “What’s on it?”

“An old story,” Ronon says, shrugging. “My father used to tell it.”

“It’s not the one about the lesbian moons is it?” Sheppard asks.

“Nah,” Ronon says. “I can tell you the rest of that one, if you like.”

“There’s something in the storm,” Sheppard says, voice sounding distant, tinny, eyes glazing over. 

Ronon noticed him losing his balance twice on the planet earlier, like he’s dizzy or not paying attention, and now he sounds like someone else is speaking. Ronon stores it all away for when it’s useful information, and decides to keep an eye on Sheppard. He shakes his head, frowns, and gives Ronon an expectant look. When Ronon meets his gaze, he looks quickly away, but that’s not unusual. Sheppard doesn’t much like eye contact. 

“Ok. The story we told on Sateda was darker,” Ronon says. “The one at fairs, they lived far away and met each year for the big market, and danced until one day they rose up into the sky. On Sateda, they met each year for the fair, but one year Griyet was chased by one of the people from her village, also on the way to the market. She ran and ran but wasn’t fast enough.”

Sheppard does a little head-bob and sound of interest to show he’s listening, a clear imitation of Teyla. It makes Ronon smile, he’s seen Sheppard watch and learn little things like that when Teyla’s running negotiations for their team, or just at parties on the city. He’s more comfortable jogging or sparring, fighting or running a mission. Right now he genuinely seems to want to hear the story, though, so Ronon carries on. He wants to tell this one. He doesn’t want to share what’s on the recorder yet, but this is something that’s been on his mind since MK7-48N, which is also the time he noticed something beginning to be off about Sheppard. 

“Griyet wasn’t quick enough, but still she ran. She closed her eyes and put her trust in the earth and ran until she dissolved into water and escaped that way, until she sank into the ground and was safe. Safe, and gone. Grav waited and waited for her love and then went searching. Eventually, Grav knew that Griyet was gone, and she wept as she walked the planet, searching every path. She cried so much, swelling the rivers until they overran their banks, until there was so much water it could only fall up into the sky. The great mother took pity and swallowed Grav up into the waters.”

“Sounds Greek, but with less bestiality,” Sheppard says, grinning at the ceiling. Ronon doesn’t understand the joke but he decides it’s not helpful - he gives John a whack and John laughs, wriggling to sit up straight. “Paying attention, carry on.”

“On learning the cause of Grav’s grief, the great mother was enraged. She whipped the weather up and all the tears Grav cried came down in rains, to fall for eternity. She took the villager who had chased Griyet and flung him down, cracking the earth into fissures and jagged cliffs. She spun Grav, part of all water now, into silver, setting her in the heavens. She gathered what was left of Griyet and held her in the embrace of water, cradled and safe, until she was a round pearl. Then she, too, was set in the heavens with Grav and there they walk forever, watching over the world and calling to the Mourners to talk of lost things.”

“Teyla says that you were once a poet,” Sheppard says. Ronon grunts, glaring. “I don’t usually hear you talk so much.”

“There isn’t usually much to say,” Ronon says. 

Sheppard shrugs, visibly bites back a question about the recorder, and suggests they go for a run or watch a movie. Ronon opts for a run, giving Sheppard a hard time for being old and slow, which is always good fun. Today Sheppard is old, slow, and unbalanced on the stairs. Ronon notes it, pretends not to notice, and waits for the storm of whatever this new thing is to break. 

  
  
  
  


* * *

The nights are shortening, the meteorologists say Atlantia III is entering some sort of Spring. As evenings warm, some of the expedition staff take to sitting out in the evenings with picnics. John and Rodney sit out on the pier late, sometimes, if they’re both up and neither of them are working. When John pings Rodney’s radio sometime around 2am it’s later than usual, but Rodney sets up the last few simulations he needs to get done to run on their own overnight, and goes to find Sheppard. He’s out on the South-West pier, sitting in the lee of the city, one leg crooked at the knee. He looks up at Rodney, eyes dark. He looks tired, there’s something strained about his expression. Rodney slides down the wall to sit next to him, sorting through options for what to say. 

He could ask if John’s ok, but that never gets him anywhere and besides he already knows the answer - John’s still having weird, vivid dreams and he muttered something about losing his balance, on their last mission. A planet with ties to a trade partner reported wraith activity and Woolsey decided a good-will gesture would be ‘diplomatically wise’.

It turned out to be a false alarm, a single-man ship so old the Wraith pilot was nothing more than bones. They walked for miles to find the wreck, it was so hot and humid. Back on Atlantis it was early morning and kind of chilly. John said it was the heat, the temperature change, the lack of coffee. Anything except ‘unexplained balance problems.’ Rodney sighs. He could always suggest they get some beers, John seems to count drinking beer as communicating, even if he never says anything. Or maybe watching a movie, that might be good. Rodney realises that John’s watching him, just… watching. 

Rodney holds out his hand, palm up, and nudges John’s knee. Nudges his arm. John’s lips twitch, his gaze drifting away from Rodney to squint out at the ocean. He rests a hand, tentative, warm, against Rodney’s palm. Lining their hands up, slowly relaxing so Rodney can knit their fingers. Rodney hums to himself and has a go at thinking through a proof for an impossible theory Jeannie rambled about in her last email. The numbers start coming out-loud and he mutters to himself, absently rubbing his thumb against John’s hand, fingers pressing as if he’s playing piano keys. The company’s nice, John not saying anything but half-listening, head tipped a little to catch Rodney’s mumbles. 

  
  
  


* * *

Teyla is dreaming, and it is raining. They have been on-world for three solid days, John has taken himself, and therefore the team, off the roster. It is good, there’s a lot Teyla needed to catch up on, and she can spend much more time with Torren. The city is settling into a spring-time, it’s warmer but the season is bringing small storms, and the rain. And Teyla dreams that Torren is stood in the rain and she is away. On Athos IV it would be easier, knowing he was among their people. But they are not on Athos IV, and there are not many Athosians on Atlantis, and Teyla’s closest friends were Elizabeth and Kate Heightmyer. It keeps on raining and the city is jittery with the damp weather, nerves taut. Torren is missing, but it’s just a dream. If it would only stop raining; it is intrusive. 

Her dream shifts, twisting away from Torren leaving him safe. She falls into the ocean, the steady rain against the surface brining the fish up. Little kinko fish she remembers from childhood on Athos; she would put her fingers in the lake and tiny kinko fish would come swarming, curious, unafraid. Beautiful, vulnerable; odd little things. The rain is coming down steadily, a pitter-patter of fingers, the surface of the ocean must be made of glass; the sound is wrong. She shifts, the covers on the bed intruding, waking slowly. For long moments she’s immersed in the ocean, watching the kinkos, and in bed listening to the rain, the soft sheets rucked up from her restlessness. Gradally the waking world presses the other away. 

It’s not rain. It’s not right. She frowns, sitting up. 

The lights are out, Kanaan asleep. She checks Torren, his small bed in his own little corner where he keeps the baby science books and carefully accurate stuffed toys Rodney gifts, and the toy air-craft John gave, and the many things Atlantis has offered. Teyla watches Torren’s peaceful face, enrapt by how beautiful he is. On this city he has already met danger and will surely meet more, but she’s almost certain he will grow up safer than she did, in many ways. He will be safe. The rain intrudes again and she follows the sound out of their room. The rain is coming from their outer room, an open area with big windows. 

John Sheppard is standing right in the middle of the room, soaked to the skin. He’s looking up into the water that is falling like rain. Coming right out of the ceiling. Teyla backs away, returning to her bedside to pick up her radio. She tries Rodney first but there is no answer, instead it is Radek Zelenka who answers her hails, sleepy and grumpy and swearing at her in his language. 

“You have Dr McKay’s radio,” she says, irritated to get the wrong man. John’s head turns, slow. His eyes are open but he doesn’t really see her, it is very disconcerting. 

“No, just a patch. I answer when anyone calls him, I am on-call. He is sleeping in the labs I think,” Radek says. “Something is broken?”

“It is raining,” Teyla says. There is a silence and she can hear Radek gearing up to say something cutting. “Inside,” another silence. “In my, I think John calls it a ‘living room’.”

“Ah, yes, very strange,” Radek says. Teyla can hear him rustling, something whirring, and then a very familiar tapping. “Oh. Some kind of fire safety, I think.”

“Nothing is on fire,” Teyla says. 

“Yes, the city’s very old, she does what she likes,” Radek says, sounding fond and happy, tap tap tapping away. “Here we go, I see. She’s put on the sprinklers, I can… there we are, if I… ha! She is sneaky, but that should…”

The rain fades away, leaving John dripping onto a rug, blinking in the dim light. It must be early morning, some light is coming in. Dim, shadowy, enough to see him by. Teyla radios for medical aid and waits, unsure whether to approach John. He is looking around, pushing the wet hair out of his face.

“Huh,” he says, gaze lighting on her. “Um, hi Teyla.”

“Good morning,” she says. He seems harmless enough. 

She gets a blanket off the back of a chair and folds it, laying it on the sofa for John to sit. He does but only under her guidance, and he is flinching away from her eyes again. He usually has a better grip on that, but Ronon told her he is barely looking at them these days. She has noticed a little of it herself, but on the city she has a lot of meetings. Some John is supposed to attend, but often he will not. 

“I guess I sleep walked,” John says. “Sorry about that. And the water, I never know where it’s coming from. Rodney thinks last time I climbed into his shower. I fell asleep watching a movie there, I wasn’t…”

John gropes around for words then gives up. Teyla tries not to laugh, turning away to put on a small lamp to hide her twitching lips. 

“It was, Radek called them sprinklers?” Teyla says. John blinks around at the wet room, and Teyla looks around too in the new light. It is a mess. John opens his mouth, probably to apologise, so Teyla gives his shoulder a brusque rub. “You can help clear up.”

John’s face finally loses some of the blankness. It is just a small smile, she only recognises it because she knows John. She smiles, too, glad John is alright.

“I dream about my father,” John says, frowning hard at the floor, voice thin as if he’s forcing it out. “First the storms and the ocean, uh, Rodney says it’s disgorging monsters and I’m not allowed to watch any more Kaiju movies. Then I turn around and my father… he’s coming striding…”

John gestures wildly and hits her arm, snatching his hand away at once. If he was Torren she would hold his hand, or just hold him, but he is not and he would not appreciate it. When she remains still, he relaxes enough to rest his hand on the blanket between them, his knuckles just about resting against her. 

“Was he a good man?” Teyla asks, thinking rather of her own father, his warm hugs, his easy affection and warmth even with the ever-present threat and the pressure to lead. To teach her to lead. 

“He, he, he,” John rubs at his face, pressing into his eye with the hand not resting with her. “He wasn’t a good father, the rest; I dunno, I didn’t know him. He comes as if he’s going to, to, to…lift me up.”

He whispers the last three words and his pale skin flushes. She translates that to his father sweeping him up into his arms to be safe, and knows that is not what happened in reality. For her, she misses her father because he was good and kind and wonderful. He held her often, kept her and all their people safe, and taught her the important things in life. She misses him so much, and Chaya, and all her lost family. Their quiet moment is interrupted by Doctor Gush finally arriving, on duty for the night shift again. 

“We had an emergency just as I left, a patient having trouble breathing,” the doctor says, coming quietly in with his case of medicines, explaining his slowness. 

“It’s no problem, lieutenant, I’m good,” John says, stretching. “Just taking a walk.”

“Yes, so I heard,” Gush says, unimpressed. “A little walk in the rain, after making said-rain yourself.”

The doctor does a quick check and then argues with John about scans and further tests in the infirmary. John is arguing for the sake of it, so Teyla gets herself a warm jumper and puts on her boots, rejoining them in time for John to lose his argument. The walk to the infirmary is silent and John is acquiescent, they wait around sitting side by side on one of the gurneys while Doctor Gush does things with scanners and computers and blood samples. The infirmary is busy; the city is troubled, unbalanced by the changing weather. 

“Huh.”

Doctor Gush’s little ‘huh’ is enough like Rodney’s little ‘huh’s when he encounters a solution that is just a new problem. 

“I think the doctor has something,” Teyla says. 

“Perhaps. There wasn’t anything in your blood-work previously, colonel, but I’ve just tried, ok so there’s this dye from PX… something, we call it Jelly World? We’ve been using it to-” Gush says, setting off at a trot and getting faster. 

“Yeah, doc, thanks. Skip to the end?” John says. 

“I love that movie! Ok, alright. I found something,” the doctor says, beaming at them. “I’ll call Doctor Kim to come confirm and we’ll run some more targeted tests, but it looks like there is something after all.”

“No shit,” John says. “What’s in my blood, lieutenant?”

“Haven’t the faintest idea,” Doctor Gush says, beaming. “Never seen it before, it’s brilliant. Oh, uh, not for you of course. Sorry. I’m sure we can work it all out now, though. Get you sorted.”

John nods, hands twisting where they rest on the gurney. They still when Teyla rests her hand there, too, just against John’s cold skin. His shoulders go tense. She waits, and he relaxes again, nodding again. She looks again at the doctor, she has a few questions. She does not get a chance to ask, as Rodney bursts in just then and rushes toward them. 

“Luke, good, you took Sheppard’s blood right? Run it again,” Rodney says, pushing a data pad against Doctor Gush’s chest. “Look, look at this. You missed something, you must have.”

“Hey, Rodney,” John says, his voice going longer and slower, drawn out. Rodney spins, sees them. Teyla waves. 

“Oh. Good, you can take more blood. I’ve been running this in the background for weeks and it finally spat out a match.”

“Give,” John says, holding out a hand. Rodney clutches his pad to his chest a moment, then passes it reluctantly to John. “These are the energy readings from the storm.”

“Yes, yes, sort of. It’s part of it, I ran a programme to try and isolate different- anyway, sort of. I found a match in the database, it’s a report on an abandoned recording project, and I’m pretty sure the planet they were working on is MK7-48N,” Rodney says. “It’s the usual business with shoddy reports, there’s a lot missing I have no idea why they were so eager to record MK7-48N but they did. None of their equipment worked, eventually they used those Satedan things but animals kept getting at them so they decided to add a little bit of poison, because of course they did, they’re idiots! So run his blood, come on come on. I have a few meager details they bothered to put down about the poison. Chop chop, Luke!”

“I already reran his blood,” Gush says. “We already found something. Ah, here’s Marie.”

“Well, you hardly need me here for this,” John says, passing Rodney his tablet and getting off the gurney, trying to escape. 

“Not so fast,” Marie says. “Let’s get another sample, we don’t want to run out and have to call you back, John.”

“Sorry, colonel,” Gush says, sounding anything but as he quickly gets hold of John’s arm and gets ready to take more blood. 

Teyla tales John back to her quarters, after the blood, getting him to help her with Torren to take his mind off things. They leave Rodney bickering about the database. Later, she gets the update later from Marie. The Ancients theorised life on MK7-48N, and they wanted to record it. Life; moving rock, moon creatures and magic fairy-tales. The Ancients had plenty of ways to record, but interference in the storm made equipment intermittent. Satendan recording devices were different. John must have touched one when the team was on MK7-48N.

  
  


* * *

John wakes up wet. This has become a regular occurrence, it’s gone from unsettling to annoying. Right now he’s wet and he’s cold; there’s a wind coming off the ocean that cuts into his wet clothing. There’s water in his eyes and mouth, running off his hair, he can’t see clearly. He rubs his cold hands over his face, unsteady, blinking into the wind, trying to work out where he is.

“John,” Rodney’s voice, coming from behind, is very soft and careful. 

John turns his head that way and sees Rodney in his pyjamas, holding the Ancient version of a door-frame, staring at John with very wide eyes. John turns away again, looking the other way, taking a step to keep balance against a wave of dizziness. His ears are ringing, he shakes his head, buzzing with stray whispers. Someone whispering, breathing. 

“John, just… stay still,” Rodney says, voice forced calm, oddly echoing through the buzzing static. 

John shivers, wrapping his arms around himself, trying to get his bearings. He makes out the pier in the dark, the sound of the ocean breaks through the static and he shakes his head again. Rodney says his name again and John takes notice as the instruction sinks through;  _ keep still _ . He stops moving, save for the involuntary shivering. The edge of the pier is raised under his sneakers. The ocean is breaking through because it’s loud, it’s close, right underneath him. He’s stood right on the edge. He holds his breath, head spinning. 

“Just take a step backwards, maybe,” Rodney whispers. 

The damned  _ whispering _ , niggling and eating away at him. He scrubs his hand against his ear, forcing himself to stumble back, a few steps back, hands pressing to his ears. Rodney dashes over now he’s not teetering on the very edge, warm and solid and arms tight around John from behind. 

“Thanks,” John says, voice coming hoarse. 

“My god you’re soaked, and freezing,” Rodney says. 

“I dream I’m falling,” John says, leaning, letting himself just rest a moment. Just one moment to be held. “Or flying.”

“Falling,” Rodney says, firmly. “Stop dreaming it.”

John shifts away from Rodney and is let go. It’s colder, away from Rodney. He straightens, not looking at Rodney, and takes the walk back at a brisk pace. He’s surprised to find Teyla and Ronon waiting inside, leaning against the wall. They both push off and walk with him, Ronon close enough to grab him. Or shoot him. 

“I’m good,” John says. Ronon just grunts at him, disbelieving. “I’m  _ fine _ .”

“We are worried for you, John,” Teyla says. 

“Yeah, colonel stupid, walking off things. And where did you get those bruises down you side, huh?” Rodney snaps, pushing through. 

“I wasn’t walking off,” John grumbles. “I was just looking at the sea. And what bruises?”

They all cram into the transporter and trail him all the way to his quarters. He escapes to shower, but they’re still there when he gets out, sitting around waiting for him. Ronon gives him a hug and Teyla gives him the soft thing of Kanaan’s to wear, then they exchange a bunch of long looks with Rodney and leave. 

“How’d you know about the bruises?” John asks, tired, letting himself realise how shaky he still is, sinking to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Your flinched when I hugged- uh, grabbed you,” Rodney says, sitting beside him. “Put that sweater on, you’re cold.”

Rodney helps him get his head out, ending up with an arm around him, holding his elbow, tangled up. Holding him. John rests his head against Rodney’s shoulder a moment. 

“Fell down a step,” John says. “Woke up halfway down.”

“Scary,” Rodney says. 

It had been, but John kept it to himself. He extracts himself and lies down, sighing. He’s so tired. Rodney presses a hand to his chest, warm and strange and intense, and then he gets up and fusses about with a laptop and starts watching a film, talking, complaining. John falls back asleep and this time he doesn’t dream about water, or falling, or even flying. 

He gets a few days, after that. Normal days, bugging Rodney, running with Ronon, looking after Torren while Teyla has meetings. Some of those he’s meant to be in the meeting and it’s more sneaking out and playing with Torren under Kanaan’s tolerant and amused supervision, but who’s counting that? 

  
  


* * *

“Sheppard! John!” Rodney yells into the silent night, high up on the city, over the water. Teyla’s sharp ‘John!’ and Ronon’s bellow fade to background white-noise. 

John doesn’t hear them, or he ignores them. He steps off the edge, falling in a graceful arc, tumbling over and over in the air until he hits the water hard. Ronon’s already climbing up to dive after him. Rodney grabs and holds on, yelling for help from Teyla, into his radio for help from the marines, from Lorne, from Radek. 

“Man overboard!” he shouts, nonsensically. 

“Lorne to Doctor McKay. Breathe, and tell me what happened,” Lorne’s voice comes over the radio, sleepy but firm, demanding. “Now.”

“John’s in the water, I think he’s sleep walking or  _ something _ . He just… he’s not come up.”

“Co-ordinates?”

Teyla rattles them off, helping keep hold of Ronon. The radio clicks, clicks, then goes silent. Less than a minute passes before they see dark shapes, much lower in the city, diving into the water. They watch, hanging onto each other. The dark shapes dive again, heads bobbing up and going under. Lorne comes out onto the pier, a jumper hovers. Another minute passes, Rodney’s heart too loud in his ears to hear anything. Then there’s a shout and someone’s come up dragging something. Something person-shaped, something that, when hauled onto the pier and grabbed by Lorne, struggles and gets to its feet, head tipped back to look up at them. 

They sprint to the transporter as one, hitting the button and Rodney falling out the other end, caught by Ronon, rough, as they run. John’s stood, soaked to the skin and shivering, alive. They all grab him, Ronon shaking him, Teyla talking, Rodney just gripping John’s wrist. 

“I’m not dead,” John says, eyes distant. He blinks, water pouring off him. 

“I’ll push you in there myself and then you soon will be,” Teyla says, arms crossed over her chest. 

“Sir,” Lorne says, coming up. 

“Later, major,” Rodney snaps, turning, his back to Lorn, closing him out. Not  _ now _ . 

“It was like a… refracting light… colours,” John waves a hand, grasping for something. 

“A kaleidoscope,” Ronon says. They stare at him. He shrugs. “Found one, after that tree crystals thing. Wanted to know what you were on about.”

“Like, yeah,” John says, shaking his head, spraying them all with droplets of water. “They should be… they exploded. Why are they whispering to me?”

“None of the rest of us were dumb enough to touch the absurd magical statues,” Rodney says. “That’ll be the  _ poison! _ ”

John gives a sharp shiver. Rodney would bet that one wasn’t from cold. Whatever Marie and Doctor Gush have done, it isn’t enough. This isn’t nearly enough, the only answers are with the device still on the planet. They have to go back, before they lose John. Before Rodney loses John. He turns on his heel and marches to the nearest transporter, building up a head of steam until he’s fuming, disgorged into the central tower he powers through to the control room .

“Carter! Sam!” he calls as he enters, forgetting it’s night and no one’s here. just Harry Lu stuck on night duty again. Sam  _ is  _ there, though. She’s waiting, calm and collected and ushering him into her office. “We’re going back to MK7-48N.”

“Teyla called me,” Sam says. “Sit down, Rodney, and run it for me.”

He stands and paces instead, gesticulating as he goes through it. She takes notes and is annoying calm and soothing and just disgustingly steady. He’s calmer by the time he’s done and she’s already drawing up plans and calling for Lorne. Rodney wants to stay and help but Lorne chucks him out, saying he’s not being helpful. Just because Rodney shouted at him a few times for having the stupidest ideas. Sam rolls her eyes at both of them but does suggest Rodney come back for a later meeting, once they’ve got the preliminaries pinned down and then he won’t have to listen to Lorne going over irrelevant things about the battalion duties. Rodney ignores Lorne whining that is in fact relevant because it’s about who’s available and what other teams are off-world. Rodney just doesn’t care. He’s still angry. 

No, he realises when he exits the office and finds John leaning, watching the empty gate. He’s not angry, he’s scared. He doesn’t want John to fall into the ocean. He isn’t ready for that, he isn’t- John turns, and he’s not just hanging around, he’s waiting. For Rodney. His hands shove into his pockets, his head jerking to suggest they go. It’s not the first time Rodney’s been struck by the sheer enormity of potentially losing John; it’s not the first time he’s realised that he loves John. John gives him a questioning look, eyebrow raised sardonically. 

“Yes, yes, I’m coming,” Rodney grumbles, falling into step as they set off, shoulders brushing. 

“You’re ‘monitoring’ me,” John says, un-pocketing his hands to add quote-marks. He shoves his hands deeper and checks around before ducking his head, softening his voice. Rodney can barely hear, only catches part of it. “...not alone…”

Rodney tries to project reassuring-ness. He puts on a movie, in his quarters, and they stretch out in their pyjamas like they have a million times. When John falls asleep this time Rodney just covers him up, lying down with him. He whispers in his sleep, eyes restless even closed.

  
  


* * *

The landscape is as empty as before, vast expanses of rock and sky, broken by jagged fissures and fog and more rock. The rain is still coming down, as they walk it comes harder and harder until they’re breathing water, roped together to keep upright again. It’s an exhausting hike, John stumbling, silhouetted between them by the lightning, head turning this way and that following non-existent sounds. This time they loop around the cliff and come up a winding path, a shorter climb, a last, steep path. 

When they crest the hill the overcast sky is dark, sun gone, it’s hard to make anything out. They come up the last slope and suddenly, huge figures surge out of the mists, turning in the play of water and light, the whole sky shifting to accommodate their bulk. They roar with the rolls of thunder and John rechecks his LSD, hand tightening on the P90. The creaks of shifting rocks are like great limbs moving achingly slow, dark and light and shadow moving across the figures as they lean into the wind. John hears Ronon’s gun whirr, feels Teyla’s hand steadying on his shoulder, Rodney’s warmth stock still at his back. Thunder is followed by lightning that cracks the dark clouds open and spills light over them, cutting into the fog. John gapes upward, hand falling away from his gun. 

They stand in the rain. Huge people made of stone, stood in a rain that’s fallen for so many years that rock is eroding, stalactites hanging from fingers and elbows. The grey-blue sky is reflected in eyes that stare ahead, the rain pouring over cragged and cracking cheeks like tears. Mouths open like spouts, silent cries that the thunder gives voice to, the pounding of the river deep in the canyons and crevasses this planet is riddled with. They stand high, high up, water flowing through the stone folds of clothing and into the rocky earth, over the edge of the cliffs, down and down into the veils of fog and mist. 

They’re in the lee of the plateau, only a slight climb but the rocks look sharp and there’s water pouring off. John steps away.

His team’s voices are whipped away by the storm leaving him isolated in a patch of wind and water. His hair’s soaking, rivulets of water in his eyes. The figure closest is staring back at him, eyes so far up, awash with water. Deeply, beautifully brown. John feels gazed into, he can only stand in the storm, weathering it like these giants. There are other flashes, of blue and green and purple; maybe once long ago they stood in sunshine and blazed with colour. The thunder rolls and the rain comes down harder, it gets darker and John could swear the stone giant bends closer. It’s eyes feel closer, calm, calming the thunder. The quiet rings, tingling, setting John’s hair on end up his arms. The rain is the only sound, and something  _ breathing.  _ He doesn’t check the LSD, his hands hang loose by his sides. 

  
  


* * *

He’s shook loose, let go, Rodney’s lips cold against his then warm. John sinks into the kiss. 

* * *

John looks at Rodney where he’s stood at the edge of the cliff, lit by sheet lighting. He’s soaked, hair plastered to his forehead, wet clothes dark against the dark sky. He’s keeping watch, scanner and pad out, while they climb up to find the device. He sees John watching. John turns back to the stone, sliding in the mud, closer. He’s roped to Ronon, already up there. There’s a disc, some kind of straggling plant is growing up the huge, granite leg and hiding whatever’s keep it in place but it’s there. John growls, slipping again, and hauls himself up until his feet can grip the plant on the slippery rock. 

“This isn’t Satedan!” Ronon shouts, gesturing to the disc. 

It’s different, sure enough. Bulkier, more like the Ancient tech, and there are thicker spikes - this isn’t subtle. Ronon flicks out his knife and cuts away the weed, and with the straggler gone, John can see there’s nothing holding the disc. 

“It’s embedded in the granite,” Teyla says, panting, joining them with a torch. John clicks his own on, too. 

“Here,” Ronon says. “There’s a switch.” 

Nothing happens. 

“It’ll be gene activated,” John says, inching his way around to Ronon’s side, holding Ronon’s arm. He presses the switch and this time, something happens. 

It’s like being stung again, but the roar isn’t his - it’s the thunder. There’s a crack and John could swear the statue stretches. But no, it’s just his imagination again. He looks down at his hand, at the disc. He drops it, Teyla holding out a case for it. He can suddenly hear Rodney on the radio, calling him an idiot for not waiting for them to work out a good way to get this off. John rolls his eyes. 

“The rest,” Ronon says. 

“What?” John asks. 

“These shouldn’t be here,” Ronon growls. “This place is sacred, it is for grieving.”

John looks through the fog at the figures that surround them - a half circle of eight giants, heads tipped back to the sky, or bent, water like tears. They look like they are weeping. He starts for the next statue, and then the next and the next. By the fifth he can get the discs without getting stung, and Rodney’s litany of insults is like the soothing buzz of bees on hot summer days. They come to a stop at the ridge, looking out. 

“It’s clearing,” Teyla says. 

Sure enough, the fog is thinner, and they can see across the jagged landscape, make things out through the gloom and mistsf. There  _ are  _ trees, curled, reaching like bony hands toward the storm. Even the rain is softer, now. It’s clearing, out there. And behind them loom the giants, watching with them. Rodney loops around the slope and joins them, hand warm against John’s shoulder, looking first at John and then out. 

“Oh, hell,” Rodney says, annoyed. “It’s almost beautiful.”

Ronon snorts and gives Rodney a fond shove, setting off an argument until Teyla gets fed up and ties off a rope for them. Ronon turns and bows his head, and Teyla does too. John and Rodney look away, giving them some privacy. This isn’t for them, this isn’t their grief to share. His shoulder brushes Rodney’s, and there’s warmth between them. He feels fuzzy, the crackle of the storm giving way now and then to the gibberish whispers. It’s Ancient fuckery, it’s like they bastardized Satedan story-telling in case it was part of the recorder. Rodney takes the opportunity to check John over, a quick check-list Marie gave them and checking John’s BP and heart-rate. 

“Elevated, and you’re really off,” Rodney says, checking John’s answers. “Not dizzy?”

“No.”

“Hm. Within her parameters, ok,” Rodney says. 

Ronon takes point for their decent, and for the trek back to the gate. The rain is definitely lighter, and the mist is wispy, like veils, opaque. They’re halfway back when the rain stops, and the clouds go scudding across the sky, flooding them in moonlight. As they walk, John can still hear thunder. 

“It’s not thunder,” Teyla says, softly. 

Ronon halts, and the four of them stand, back to back in a circle, none of them daring to move as they come. There are more of them and more. Shadowy, hung in mist, they move so slowly John’s not sure they’re there but at the same time there’s no doubt. They roar and creak with the wind. The mourners are moving, and the four of them are caught in the centre of a dance. 

“Don’t move,” Ronon breathes. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Teyla stands as still as she learnt while hunting, as the planet shifts and moves around them. It’s hard to tell what’s moving and what’s still. The storm’s quieted, but the wind’s up and there are still veils of mist hanging in the air, the moonlight cuts through in odd disjointed patterns and the bright silver-white sets everything in surreal unreality. Their feet sink into the wet ground, water running off the jagged outcrops, she can hear is thundering into a fissure, the whole surface of the planet unstable. She makes herself a point of stillness, gathering it around herself, slowing her breathing. 

Rodney is breathing too hard. She can hear it, he’s winding himself up like he does, right towards a rant. John shifts his weight, to her left, away from her and toward Rodney. He mutters something and Rodney starts off, high and too fast, voice rising as he lists the ways they’re going to die. Teyla steadies her breathing, impatient, knowing that talking is a kind of release for Rodney and trying to bear it. She feels, as she did during that first journey back to the gate, like they are being watched. Something is in the crackle of the air, something is noticing them. She feels a great need to quiet Rodney, but she knows from experience that snapping at him will not help. She waits for John to say something. 

“...and then the Oh my god Sheppard!” Rodney says, all in one breath. Teyla doesn’t dare turn. 

“What?” Ronon says, voice tight, to Teyla’s right. 

“John? Ok, ok,” Rodney says, still too fast. There is a cracking sound like a tight sail in a heavy wind, and something is turning, slow, so slow, toward them. “It’s, I think he just- ok just hold onto my shoulder and be still, shut up, yes I know I should shut up, oh Jesus christ is it, is it coming?”

“Shut up,” Teyla says.

“I’m fine,” John says. His voice is breathy. He always says he is fine. “Just a little lightheaded. The Ancient’s gobbledygook whispering… there’s too much static.”

There is a lot of static, a left over from the storm perhaps. It’s making her hair fizz and stand on end on her arms, making her skin tingle. She tries to keep a watch but she still can’t clearly make out what is moving, what is alive, what is water. She hears a rock fall somewhere, displaced by the mud and rain-fall. The crash is repeated, echoing. She can’t pinpoint a direction, there are too many echoes. The great mourners are moving in a dance, and it’s changing; it is bringing them closer. She thinks of Chaya, of old age, of Torren, and of loss. 

“You have to be quiet,” Ronon says. 

Rodney is still talking, somewhere in the background. He never stops. He isn’t quieting now, he’s getting more frantic. Teyla gathers that John is trying to walk away. Then, before she can act, Ronon starts to whisper. Melodic, rhythmic, a language she barely recognises but knows the stresses and tones from Ronon. He rarely speaks Satedan, even slang in every-day speech in the trade language, but sometimes, late at night when they tell stories in the quiet. Rodney is quiet but he is no longer still, there is a shove and John stumbles into her shoulder. Ronon’s voice surges, and John goes still. 

Ronon’s whispering builds until it is loud enough to echo, interweaving with the wind, then cuts off abruptly, ringing out then damped by the mist, and the patterns of the dance change again. He starts to talk, his cadance reminding her of old story-tellers at trade-fairs, of childhood, of her father. This, she knows, is the story of this planet. Of grief and of intrusion. Of Grav, of Griyet, of the mourners. She hums, soft at first until Ronon atunes his telling to her, and then louder, picking up notes from him as his voice rises and falls. His story and her song, telling the mourners and the moon. She does not understand his language but she knows grief and she has heard whispers of this before, of the moons and these dark, still people who are mistaken for dead rock but truly live. 

It goes on until the dance has passed them by, until the wind settles and the thunder of falling rocks and water fades, until the mists settle and the clouds obscure the moons’ bright light to a quieter dimness. The earth creaks, then there’s a pause, silent and clear, everything finally visible around them. There are things growing, spiralling across the ground, the land rolling into hills and dropping away, clear water and pale mountains far away, shade after shade after shade of blue turning purple. They stand, waiting in the stillness. There’s a soft susurration, just a slight breeze, disturbing the air. A quiet patter, calming and familiar as the rain on Atlantia III’s ocean. Teyla tips her head back, smiling into the slow rain, the water catching the light as it falls around them. It’s barely there to begin with but it’s growing, coming down faster, wetter. She waits, still, until Ronon shifts his weight and then they both turn, as a rumble of thunder rolls across the sky. Rodney’s got his arm around John’s waist, holding him in place. He turns too, facing them. 

“Shall we make for the gate before this all turns back into a hellish storm?” Rodney says, voice stunned. 

“How’s Sheppard?” Ronon asks. “I can sling him over my shoulder.”

“I’m good,” John says, straightening, stumbling. Teyla catches hold of him as he tries to lose his balance from a standstill. He ammends his statement to “I can walk.”

Rodney helps him for the first few minutes, Teyla taking the lead, but soon enough she falls back and walks with them, steadying John from the other side. Ronon leads instead, walking ahead of them alone. He dials when he reaches the gate and is the last through, a few moments behind them, John already whisked away by a waiting medical team. Teyla gave them one of the devices and Radek, also waiting, hurries forwards for the rest, excited to study them. 

“They should be destroyed,” Ronon says, dripping wet and glaring.

“I would like to know if they managed to record anything,” Radek says. He frowns. “Probably not. I have looked at the readings Rodney took of those storms, and from the other device. I think they would not work. We have our own ways to record.”

“So you will take them apart?” Teyla asks. She wants them gone, too, like Ronon. They feel wrong. 

“I think they are more useful in pieces,” Radek says, head nodding. 

Ronon pushes out of the gateroom with that assurance, and is gone. Teyla considers checking he is alright, but decides that she will give him space. Instead she follows after John and Rodney to the infirmary, and finds Marie and Doctor Gush bent over the device. Rodney is not there, which is surprising. He is usually to be found arguing with the doctors and prodding at any device. She understands, though, when she finds him sitting by the narrow bed John has taken. 

“They sedated him,” Rodney says, glancing up at her. “Marie says he might’ve got pricked again when he was getting those things off. They’re sure they can find what’s poisoned him now, though, and with the stuff from the database… he’ll be fine.”

“That is good to hear,” Teyla says, relieved. “No more walking around while asleep?”

“No. You know…” Rodney hesitates, looking at her for a long time before continuing. “Could they have been trying to talk to him? To ask for help? Did our removing the devices cause the break in the storm? Did they pause the storm? I have so many questions.”

“I do not think you will get answers,” Teyla says. “Sometimes there are no answers. Before I came here to this city, I went off-world for trade a lot. Many planets are like mine, the people are like us. But sometimes we would come across somewhere, like MK7-48N, that felt older.”

“It predates the Ancients,” Rodney says, nodding. “It’s actually fascinating, I’ve looked at the work the meteorologist and geologists have been doing with my data, against my better judgement because they’re not physicists. They seem to think the storms have been non-stop for thousands of years.”

“That agrees with the stories Ronon and I have heard,” Teyla says. 

“They were still there,” Rodney says. 

“You are going to have to make peace with unanswered questions,” Teyla says. 

“We could go back, monitor things,” Rodney says. Then sighs and waves her away before she can get in a protest. “No, no, you’re right. Better to leave it undisturbed.”

“Summer is good,” Teyla says, smiling a little bit. 

“Summer is good,” Rodney agrees, with another sigh. “Fine, ok. Do you want to stay with him? I can get you a chair.”

“No, I have to see Sam, I will deal with the debriefing when I do, so assure John it is done, when he wakes,” she says, stepping closer. John does not look peaceful, but he does not look distressed. She bends to press her forehead to his, wishing him protection and safety. 

“I’ll radio you and Ronon when we know anything, and when he’s awake,” Rodney says. 

Teyla nods and heads out, radioing Sam to let her know she’s on her way up. 

  
  


* * *

Rodney holds John’s hand, while they wait for the doctors. He rests his tablet on the bed and works with scans of the Ancient’s bastardized recorders, radioing Marie regularly until she gets annoyed and starts sending back ear-splitting bursts of static, then he settles on emails and making her computer ping until she reads them. He can hear her swearing in Korean at the other end of the room, but he knows his information is useful. He can also hear Doctor Gush using his schematics and intel to take the thing apart. It’s about two hours before they find the poison and another hour after that before they come round the curtain. John’s still asleep, drugged beyond dreaming. It’s four hours before they have a cure and then another day before John’s awake for more than a few, foggy minutes. Rodney stays with him. 

“You’re still here,” John murmurs, in the morning. 

Later, about noon, he wakes up for real and complains about being bored. Rodney’s in the middle of lunch and an argument with Radek over the radio, so he just raises his fork in acknowledgement. Ronon turned up five minutes ago; he can keep John entertained until Rodey’s won this argument. Teyla comes and tells him to get off the radio before he can, which is annoying. He obeys her for the moment, though, turning Radek off and putting aside his cleared plate. He moves to perch on the edge of the bed so Teyla can have a chair, incidentally getting close enough to John that John can press the backs of curled fingers against Rodney’s thigh. 

“So,” Ronon says. “That was all weird.”

“Yes,” Teyla agrees, incling her head. “We will keep it among ourselves.”

“What? We already wrote reports, and pretty much everyone knows thanks to colonel sleep-walk here,” Rodney starts, getting up a head of steam. John pokes him. 

“She means the other thing,” John says. 

“Other- oh,” Rodney says, turning to look at Ronon, remembering the stillness and Ronon’s voice, the poetry. “Yes, yes. Of course. Yours to talk about.”

“Oh, speaking of talking,” John says, sitting more upright and checking around. “There’s a new nurse. Came on the Deadalus last month, Sergeant Hardcastle. I reckon she might beat Rodney at a rant.”

“He made the mistake of mentioning my theory about Dr Gush’s vampirism,” Rodney says, grinning. John, sleepy and goofy, had been utterly out of his depth when the woman taking his blood had gone on a twenty minute rant that covered vampire fiction, vampires in movies, and Doctor Gush’s beautiful technique taking blood, finally settling on a good five minutes of how atrocious doctors usually are at that when they even bother to try. “It was great, John did his gormless fish impression and completely failed to charm her.”

The conversation turns to more Atlantis gossip, and Rodney marvels again that he’s sitting here gossiping, with friends, people who actually like him. People who he actually likes. Also, as they settle in for a good run-down of everything that’s been happening while they’ve been distracted, John’s still got his hand resting against Rodney’s pants, and when Ronon leaves to go for a run and Teyla remembers she’s late for a meeting and leaves at run, John slips his hand into Rodney’s a bit shyly and suggests they break out of the infirmary. 


End file.
